


Never was a Gambling Man

by Zoejoy24



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Gen, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Minor Character Death, Russian Roulette, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23932564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoejoy24/pseuds/Zoejoy24
Summary: As soon as he wakes up Malcolm knows something has gone very, very wrong.  The last thing he remembers is questioning prisoners at the correctional center with the rest of the team, and since he doesn’t remember leaving, there’s a good chance he’s still there, and not in a good position.Stuck in a room with a sadistic prisoner intent on forcing Malcolm to play a dangerous game for the lives of his team mates, Malcolm has nothing to rely on but his own dumb luck.And honestly, his luck has never been that good.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 148





	Never was a Gambling Man

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kate for the prompt, and Friday for the encouragement to actually write it, and everyone else who cheered me on while I did.

Something has gone very, very wrong, Malcolm thinks as he’s pulled abruptly back into consciousness by what he suspects was a slap across the face, judging by the way his cheek is stinging. The last thing he remembers is questioning prisoners at the correctional center with the rest of the team, and since he doesn’t remember leaving, there’s a good chance he’s still there, and not in a good position.

He doesn’t have time to think about much else. Another blow to his face forces him fully awake, and would have sent him to the floor if he wasn’t tied to the chair he was sitting in. Which is also not good.  _ He’s _ not supposed to be the one restrained.

“I know you’re awake, pretty boy. We don’t have a lot of time, so listen carefully.”

Malcolm blinks his eyes open to see the blurry shape of a man in prison orange squatting in front of him.

“‘M listening,” Malcolm murmurs. He starts to look around, trying to get a better picture of his current situation.

The man stands and grabs a fistful of Malcolm’s hair, yanking his head back so that he’s forced to look up at him and him alone.

“Eyes on me, pretty boy. I’m the only thing you need to worry about right now.”

Malcolm swallows down the panic that’s growing inside of him, and keeps his gaze steadily on the prisoner. “Yeah, okay, you’re in charge,” he concedes.

“You better believe it,” the man says, giving Malcolm’s hair one more tug before releasing him and stepping back, arms crossed. “You cops sure picked a shitty day to come asking questions. We’ve been planning this riot for a while now. Got some demands to make. Having you here just gives us even more leverage to work with.”

“Glad we could help,” Malcolm says. His head is pounding, undoubtedly from whatever blow had knocked him unconscious, and his mind is fuzzy, his thoughts slippery. He can’t seem to grasp onto them long enough to get a grasp on his situation, to make a plan.

“Smart ass,” the man growls, smacking him again. 

Malcolm can’t stop the hiss of pain that escapes his lips at the blow and the way his head is jerked violently to the side once more. He’s definitely going to be sore tomorrow.

“Here’s the deal,” the man continues. “We only need one of you. So we’re going to have a little fun. It’s not everyday we get hand delivered four cops to play with.”

“M not a cop,” Malcolm murmurs, head still swimming, though clearly not enough for him to just keep his mouth shut.

“You’re right, you’re not. Just some fancy ass consultant. That’s why you get the honor of playing our little game.”

Malcolm struggles to push through the fog in his head. He needs to be coherent, he can’t afford to be off his game for this. Lives depend on it, the lives of his  _ friends _ . 

“Where are they?” he asks, trying once more to glance around at his surroundings. He’s fairly certain he’s still in the same small conference room he’d been questioning prisoners in all morning.  _ My how the tables have turned _ , he thinks idly. He can’t tell, because his chair has been turned so he’s face a blank wall, and he can’t twist enough to see what’s behind him.

“They’re all fine, just fine. Even your little lady cop friend. She’s a pretty one, isn’t she? We’re going to have some fun with her. If you lose, that is. Feeling lucky, kid?” the prisoner asks, but Malcolm can’t quite follow the train of the conversation. His mind had stalled on the thinly veiled threats about Dani and panic threatens to well up once more.

_ Fine _ ,  _ they’re fine _ , he tells himself. The prisoner isn’t lying, he can tell. The prisoners are waiting—waiting for  _ him _ . Waiting to start whatever sick game they have planned.

“What do you want me to do?” Malcolm asks. He already knows he’ll do it, whatever it is, if it means keeping his team safe.

“Like I told you, we’re going to play a little game. Are you a gambling man, pretty boy?”

“Well, I’m pretty good at counting cards, and reading tells is kind of my job, so…” Malcolm says with a shrug.

“Unfortunately, that won’t help you now.”

The man’s been walking around his chair in slow circles as he speaks, and he pauses behind Malcolm, out of his line of sight. He can’t see him, but he recognizes the sound of the chamber of a revolver spinning on its axis, and his blood runs cold.

He has no idea where they got a revolver. No one on the team carries one. One of the guards, perhaps? It doesn’t matter. What matters is, he knows what game they want him to play.

“I’ve never been a roulette fan, honestly,” he admits, mind racing, searching for an out. “Got anything else in mind?”

The man circles back to stand in front of him once more, a maniacal gleam in his eyes as he looks down at Malcolm. 

“‘Fraid not, pretty boy. This is it. Now, I’ll ask again. You feeling lucky?”

Malcolm doesn’t answer, there’s no point, he just glares up at the man in a show of pointless defiance.

“Let me explain the rules, and then we’ll get started. I’ve got a line of boys ready to try their luck against you. Whoever survives their round gets to have their fun with whichever of your little cop friends they want. Though, it’s been a while since any of us have seen a woman, especially one as pretty as her, so I think we all know who they’re going for.”

Malcolm snarls, yanking against the restraints around his wrists and glaring up at the man. He raises an unimpressed eyebrow at Malcolm, then leans in to whisper conspiratorially. 

“A couple of them didn’t want you to be the one to play, pretty boy. They wanted you as the prize. But, I make the rules here. You can thank me for saving you from  _ that _ , later. If you survive.”

Malcolm’s heart is pounding in his chest. This is… this is insane. And it doesn’t make any sense…. “Why even bother playing? You hold all the cards, here. Why risk it?” Malcolm asks. He’s stalling, yes. But he’s also truly curious, always seeking to understand more of the human mind.

“Because we’re bored, pretty boy. This is the most excitement we’ve had in years. Decades, for some of us. And, most of us aren’t gonna make it out of this place alive. Why not have a little fun first, eh? Now, where was I?”

He’s pacing again, back behind Malcolm as he continues to expound on the rules of the game. “So, one of my boys wins, he gets to pick a prize. But, for each round  _ you _ win, we’ll let one of your cop friends go. You see, there’s a negotiator outside, and he’s going to want a sign of good faith, and we can buy some time if we let one or two of you go while  _ my _ negotiator talks it out. Any questions, pretty boy?”

Malcolm tries to think of something,  _ anything _ he can say or do to delay what seems to be the inevitable, but he’s got nothing, at a loss for words for once in his life, at a time when it matters most.

“Nothing? Good, then let’s begin!”

From somewhere behind him another prisoner appears, dragging a chair along with him and practically tossing it down into place across from Malcolm before dropping into it with a sneer. There’s a tugging at his wrists, and then the zip tie holding them in place breaks open. He brings his arms around to his front, rubbing at his sore wrists as he eyes the man across from him warily. 

The first prisoner, the man in charge, walks around to stand between and to the side of them. He’s tossing a coin in one hand, the revolver held loosely in the other.

“Call it, Schmidt,” he instructs before tossing the coin and letting it fall to the ground. The other prisoner, Scmidt, calls tails. 

The coin lands heads up. 

“Oh, luck is against you already, my friend,” the man in charge chuckles, handing the revolver over to Schmidt.

He reaches behind his back and pulls out a second pistol, one Malcolm recognizes easily as one of the police issued service weapons the team carries.

“Just in case anyone gets any ideas about cheating,” he explains, waving the pistol in front of them, his meaning clear.

Schmidt glares at Malcolm, but puts the gun to his head without hesitation, and pulls the trigger.

Malcolm can’t help but flinch as the hammer falls, but nothing happens. They both let out a sigh of relief, though his is short lived as Schmidt passes over the gun with a smirk.

Malcolm takes it, his heart racing at a thousand beats per minute. His right hand starts to tremble, shaking so badly that he can barely lift the gun to his temple.

“Ha, look at that! Pretty boy’s afraid!” the man in charge exclaims with a bark of laughter.

“It’s a psychogenic tremor,” Malcolm hisses out. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to still as best he can, and pulls the trigger.

A click, then nothing. He breathes another huge sigh of relief as he passes the gun back over.

“You gonna go again, Schmidt, or you gonna tap out? Your choice, man.”

Schmidt sneers again, the only expression he seems capable of. “I’ll go again. I want that bitch’s ass,” he declares. He raises the gun once more, and pulls the trigger without a second's hesitation.

The gun fires with a bang, and Malcolm flinches back so violently he nearly falls off his chair as Schmidt’s head explodes in a spray of red and his body falls limply to the ground.

Heart pounding, ears ringing, Malcolm looks down at the dead prisoner in shock before turning back to the man in charge. He’s expecting to see anger or frustration on the man’s face, but his expression is practically blank. If anything, he looks annoyed. 

“Well, that’s one round you’ve won, pretty boy. Guess one of your cop friends gets to go home safe today.” 

“Dani,” Malcolm says without hesitation, the man’s threats still playing on repeat in his head.

The man laughs. “Thought you’d say that. But no. We’ll be saving her for very last. The suits outside have been asking for the old guy, so we’ll send him out first.”

_ Gil _ , Malcolm thinks.  _ Good. Gil’s going to be fine. _

The man in charge makes a beckoning motion with the hand holding the service pistol, and two men appear from behind Malcolm, grabbing Schmidt’s body and carrying the dead man out without a word.

It’s all so surreal that Malcolm wonders for a moment if he’s actually having a very, very vivid hallucination. Because this  _ can’t _ be real.

“Oh, it’s real, pretty boy,” the man chuckles, and Malcolm realizes with a start that he’d been thinking out loud. “Now, who’s next?”

Malcolm twists in his chair, finally free to look around the whole room, and watches as another man strolls in from out in the hall. There’s a crowd out there, and Malcolm suspects that the room on the other side of the two way mirror is full of spectators as well. 

The man in charge retrieves the revolver from where it had fallen from Schmidt’s hand onto the ground and loads up another round, spinning the chamber before slamming it shut and holding it out to Malcolm.

Malcolm takes it in his trembling hand, and lifts it slowly to his temple once more.

He’s not afraid to die. A bullet to the brain is a pretty quick and painless way to go, compared to some of the options he’s faced down in the past.

But if he dies he’ll be leaving Dani and JT behind, at the mercy of the prisoners, and  _ that _ terrifies him more than anything else.

“Let’s go, pretty boy. No more stalling.”

Malcolm takes a deep breath, looks steadily at the man across from him, and pulls the trigger.

Nothing.

He nearly sobs in relief, handing off the gun as quickly as possible. The man across from him takes it, a cocky smile on his lips, but Malcolm can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s terrified. He keeps up the facade, though, raising the gun, smile still in place, and pulls the trigger.

Again, the click of the hammer falling, and nothing. The man’s smile falters, and for a moment he looks like he might be sick. He gets to his feet just a little too fast to be smooth, and practically tosses the gun back at Malcolm.

“I’m out, man. I’d rather be alive and settle for sloppy seconds than try for firsts again,” he admits with a shaky laugh.

The man in charge watches him go with arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, clearly unimpressed. And then another man is taking his place.

Malcolm  _ knows _ this prisoner. His name is Marcus, and Malcolm put him here. Though he didn’t think it was even possible, his heart starts to pound even faster. Marcus doesn’t look scared. He doesn’t look eager. He looks determined, and it scares Malcolm even more than he already is.

Still, he takes his turn. Holds his breath, pulls the trigger, trying not to think about odds.

Click. Nothing.

He passes the gun over slowly, pulse racing as he watches Marcus closely.

“Remember me, profiler?” Marcus snarls, and then he turns the gun on Malcolm and fires.

Malcolm jerks back as the sound of a shot fills the small room, and he can’t stop the startled shout that bursts out of him as the gun goes off. To his shock, Marcus jerks back in his chair, too, and a spot of bright red blood appears on his chest, blooming out across the orange fabric of his jumpsuit as he slumps, then falls to the side.

Malcolm’s chest is heaving and he realizes that he’s on the verge of hyperventilating. He stares, wide-eyed, at the man in charge, who has his pistol still pointed loosely in Marcus’s direcion.

“You… you shot him,” Malcolm gasps out.

“He broke the rules. That’s not how the game is played,” the man says cooly, looking entirely unaffected. 

Malcolm drops his eyes, finding a spot on the ground between his knees to focus on as he tries to calm his breathing, to keep himself from dissolving into a panicked, sobbing mess as his body struggles to function under the increasingly rising stress levels.

“Take your turn, pretty boy,” the man orders.

Malcolm looks up at him in shock. “ _ What _ ?”

“Take your turn and finish the round,” the man orders.

“But..” Malcolm says, trailing off as he looks over at Marcus’s dead body, unable to think clearly.

“Pick up the gun, and. Take. Your. Turn. Maybe you get lucky, and the big guy goes home. Or, I shoot you myself, and the game’s over.”

Malcolm reaches out numbly and takes the revolver from Marcus’s dead fingers. He can’t think, his mind suddenly blank with pure terror. He’s got a 50/50 chance. There’s… there’s no way he’ll get that lucky. He’s never been lucky before in his life. But a chance is better than none at all, and that’s what he has if he  _ doesn’t _ take another turn.

He raises the revolver, his hand shaking so badly he has to rest the barrel against his own head to hold it steady. He sucks in a few shaky breaths, eyes falling closed as he wills himself to pull the trigger.

“Do it!” the man yells and Malcolm jerks, squeezes his eyes closed and pulls the trigger with a shout.

The hammer falls. Nothing.

He sags, bonelessly, in his chair, gun clattering to the ground, his upper body so slack that he nearly falls out of his chair as relief washes over him in waves. 

“Oh god, oh god,” he whispers to himself as he tries desperately to regain control of his breathing, of his body’s stress response.

One more round. He just has to make it one more round.

They get rid of Marcus’s body, and then another man comes in and takes a seat across from Malcolm. The man in charge takes the revolver and spins the chamber, resetting the odds for the new round.

“This is insane,” Malcolm mutters to no one in particular. “Why are you doing this? Is it really worth the risk?”

“I told you, pretty boy. We’re bored. We’ve got nothing to lose, and nothing better to do. Plus, sending your cop friends out there one by one is just buying us more time. Now, time for round three!” he exclaims, and Malcolm can hear a chorus of cheers ringing out from those watching in the hall.

His whole body is shaking, a mix of adrenaline and terror ensuring that his nerves are absolutely shot. The man across from him is completely relaxed as he takes the gun, points it at his head, and pulls the trigger so quickly that Malcolm barely even registers that the new round is already starting.

He takes the gun numbly. His mind is blank with terror, certain that he can’t possibly be lucky enough to win this once more. He’s going to die, and Dani…

“Let’s go, pretty boy. Take your turn!” he’s ordered.

“I can’t, I  _ can’t,  _ Malcolm moans as the weight of the situation bears down on him. He drops his head into his left hand, gun hanging loosely from his right, which is shaking uncontrollably. 

The man in charge crouches beside him and shoves his gun roughly into the soft flesh of Malcolm’s chin, forcing him to lift his head with a gasp of pain.

“Take your fucking turn, or I’m going to drag that bitch in here, and fuck her in front of you, then shoot you while she watches. Understand?”

Malcolm shudders, chest heaving as another wave of panic washes over him, threatening to overwhelm him. He can’t afford to lose it, not yet.  _ There’s still a chance, _ he tells himself. He nods, lifting the revolver to his temple in submission, and the man in charge smiles, stepping back to watch as Malcolm steadies himself, tears falling freely from his eyes, and pulls the trigger.

Nothing. Again. Again and again he’s managed to literally dodge the bullet, to escape an almost certain death when he considers the odds. He’s almost… numb to it now. The first round or two there’d been a thrill of nearly euphoric relief when he’d hear the click of the hammer falling and realize he’d survived. But now, there’s nothing. Nothing but horror. He’s either going to watch another man die in front of him, or die himself. He just wants it to be over.

The man across from him yanks the gun from his grasp, scowling in disgust.

“Enough,” Malcolm whispers, eyes blown wide as he looks across at the prisoner. “You don’t have to do this. Why… why do you keep doing this?” He doesn’t understand.

Despite his impatience to get the revolver, the man across from Malcolm doesn’t immediately raise it to his head. He looks across at Malcolm and smiles, a wide, feral stretch of lips that makes Malcolm shudder in the face of it’s ferocity.

“That pretty little bitch cop is going to scream so nice, I could tell from the moment I laid eyes on her.  _ That’s _ why I’m doing this. You can’t be that fucking lucky.”

“Wait, wait!” Malcolm exclaims, throwing up a hand. “What if… why don’t you let her go, and take me?” he suggests, turning desperately to the man in charge, the one who’d been calling him  _ pretty boy _ this whole time. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he promises, desperate.

The man in charge looks down at him, considering. “If it were up to me, pretty boy, I’d agree. But, my boys here, they don’t all feel the same. And, I’m a man of my word. I told you the rules of the game. I can’t change them now.”

Malcolm grits his teeth, holding back the desperate cry that’s building in his throat as he turns back to the man across from him. He’s raising the gun, pointing it to his temple, still smiling.

“She’s gonna feel so good,” he taunts one last time before pulling the trigger.

The shot rings out through the room, followed by the dull thud of the man’s body falling to the floor. Malcolm sits, unmoving, eyes fixed on the body, but he’s not really  _ seeing _ anything. He forgets to breathe for several long moments until the sharp burning in his chest brings him back to himself and he sucks in a ragged breath.

He… he did it. He’d survived. Three rounds, three of his friends freed. 

“You have got to be  _ fucking kidding me _ !” the man in charge screams, kicking over the now empty chair. He turns, lashing out and striking Malcolm hard across the face with the stolen service pistol, sending him to the floor.

Malcolm groans, hand going up to cup his throbbing cheek. He feels a slippery wetness there, and when he pulls his fingers back they’re stained red from where the gun must have cut into his cheek.

“You. You promised,” he manages to gasp out, pushing himself up weakly. “I won… you made the rules, and I won.”

The man is seething, gripping his gun so hard his knuckles are white as he turns to snarl down at Malcolm. He takes a deep breath, and the anger on his face shifts to something else, something darker, vengeful.

“You’re right, pretty boy. I’m a man of my word. We’ll let your little cop friend go,” he stalks over to stand in front of Malcolm, staring down at him, running his eyes over Malcolm’s still trembling body. “You said it yourself. We don’t need her when we have you.”

He reaches down and grabs a handful of Malcolm’s shirt, yanking him up to his knees so he’s facing the one way mirror, the man standing behind him. He brings the pistol up, running it lightly along Malcolm’s bloody cheek.

“Any last words you want to say to your friend? She may be walking out of here, but you’re never going to see the light of day again,” the man snarls.

“What?” Malcolm gasps, eyes shooting over to the large mirror, searching it desperately, as if he could possibly see through to the other side.

“They’ve been watching you this whole time, pretty boy. At least they’ll have a good story to tell, eh?” He yanks Malcolm back so he’s forced to lean back against the man’s legs, gun resting on his shoulder, just below his jawline. “She knows what we’re going to do to you, now—all the things we said we were gonna do to her. She gets to walk out of here, knowing you took her place after all. What a fucking hero.”

“Dani, don’t… don’t listen. It’s fine, it’s going to be fine,” Malcolm calls out. He’s trying not to show the panic he feels, the fear. He’s desperately hoping she doesn’t do something stupid, like trade herself for him. “Please, Dani, go.  _ Please _ .” he begs.

“Oh, she will be, don’t worry. She gets to live, knowing how you died.”

The gun leaves Malcolm’s shoulder, and he can’t see it but he guesses the man is gesturing towards whoever’s holding Dani, signalling for her release. Malcolm’s sags, nearly falling, the only thing keeping him upright is the man’s hand fisted in his shirt.

He’s… done. Just done. He’s relieved, so relieved to know that the rest of the team is safe—assuming the man has been telling the truth this whole time. The adrenaline that had been coursing through him constantly throughout each round of roulette is finally seeping out of him, leaving him exhausted, physically and mentally. He’s afraid, still so afraid, of what’s to come, but he has no strength left with which to fight.

The man shoves him away with a snarl, sending him sprawling back down to the ground, and follows him down, straddling his hips and kneeling over him. Malcolm tries weakly to shimmy out from under him, pushing with his feet and twisting over onto his side. The man grabs him by the hair and slams his head down against the floor, stunning him and halting his feeble attempts at freeing himself.

“I’m going to take my time with you, pretty boy. And then I’m going to throw you out there, for the rest of my boys to enjoy.”

Malcolm opens his mouth to… to scream? To argue? Beg? He doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter, because as soon as he does the man jams the barrel of the pistol into his mouth and he chokes around the metal, stilling, eyes blown wide as he struggles to breath through his nose.

“That’s more like it. Just lay there, don’t fight, don’t fucking speak,” the man coos, running his hand down Malcolm’s chest.

Malcolm’s eyes are watering, the gun pressing painfully into the roof of his mouth, the man’s free hand sickeningly busy on his body, sliding under his shirt...

A tremendously loud  _ bang _ rings out from the hallway, followed by shouts and gunfire and the hiss of smoke grenades.

The man snarls, rolling off of Malcolm, standing and pulling Malcolm up with him, holding him in front of him tightly and backing into a corner, gun pressed steadily to Malcolm’s temple.

Malcolm’s chest is heaving and he can barely support himself, sagging weakly in the man’s arms, but his grip is sure, one arm wrapped beneath Malcolm’s armpitss, holding him up easily, using his body as a shield against whoever’s about to come through the door.

Officers in full SWAT gear swarm into the room, pausing at a distance, weapons at the ready as one of them screams for the man to drop his weapon and put his hands in the air.

“I’ll shoot him, I’ll fucking shoot him!” the man screams back, pressing the gun harshly into the side of Malcolm’s head. 

Malcolm winces, watching the officers to see how they react, looking for any sort of sign they might give, searching his mind for a resolution to the situation that doesn’t involve his brains splattered on the wall.

“You can’t get out of this alive,” he mutters to the man holding him. “They knew I was in here and came in anyways. They don’t care if you shoot me, they just want this over with.”

“Stop talking,” the man snarls into his ear.

“You can still make it out of this alive, just drop the gun. They aren’t going to let you walk out of here with me,” Malcolm continues.

“You should listen to the man,” the SWAT officer says. “Drop the gun and let him go. We won’t shoot you. We’ll even bring you out to talk to our negotiator. We know you have demands. You’ve shown plenty of good faith up till now, letting those other cops go. There’s no reason this needs to end with you dead. Just let him go.”

Malcolm closes his eyes and holds his breath, pleading silently for the man to listen. He doesn’t want to die, he can’t have made it this far for things to end this way.

There’s a clatter, and then the arm holding him up is gone, and he falls to his knees, nearly faceplants, just barely managing to throw out an arm and catch himself. The SWAT team surges forward, two of them grabbing his arms and helping him up, pulling him away from the prisoner as two others rush to restrain him.

“Thank you,” Malcolm gasps out as one of the officers slips an arm around his waist and helps him to walk out of the room. “My team, my team is okay?” Malcolm asks desperately.

“They're all safe. They’re waiting for you outside, along with the paramedics. It’s all over now, you’re going to be okay.”

Malcolm sobs, he can’t help it, body sagging, suddenly so weak with relief that he can barely support himself. The officer is practically dragging him by the time they reach the exit.

As soon as they step outside, his team is there. 

Gil and JT are beside him immediately, supporting him, one on either side. He manages to get his feet under him and walk most of the way to the ambulance—where Dani is sitting—under his own strength, assuring them both that he’s not injured, that he can walk. They release him, but stay close, and Gil keeps a hand wrapped firmly around the base of his neck, guiding him gently. There are tears in the older man’s eyes as he looks down at Malcolm, and Malcolm gives him his own watery smile.

“I’m okay, Gil. I’m okay,” he assures him. 

Gil gives him a little shake, a noise that’s part laugh, part sob escaping his lips as he returns Malcolm’s smile.

When they reach the ambulance he can see that Dani has been crying, too, and the look she gives him nearly makes him break down completely.

“Bright,” she chokes out. “I was so worried.”

“Hey, hey, I told you it would be okay,” he tells her with all the false bravado he can muster. 

She shakes her head at him, an exasperated smile spreading across her face.

A paramedic hustles him into the ambulance and begins to look him over. The team hovers several feet away, waiting in silence, giving him space as he tries to assure the paramedic that he doesn’t need a hospital despite her insistence that he get a CT scan. She treats his various scrapes and cuts, and tests the bump on the back of his skull for any signs of fracture or abnormal swelling. He assures her that he’ll go straight to the hospital if he experiences anything worse than a headache, and she relents, giving him some painkillers and a shock blanket and sitting him on the end of the bus for observation.

The team rushes back in, Gil stepping to his side once more to wrap a warm hand around his shoulder, the physical touch a comfort to both of them, a sure sign that he’s alive, and mostly well, and safe once more.

“Bright, what you did in there, that took balls, man,” JT says, admiration shining in his eyes.

“It’s not like I had much choice,” Malcolm murmurs, suddenly unsure in the face of all of their attention. “You… you saw everything?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“They made us watch,” Gil replies gruffly. “I’ve never been so afraid in my entire life. And when they pulled me out, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, kid.” His voice is thick with emotion, and Malcolm can tell he’s crying again without even looking. 

He can’t bring himself to look, he knows if he does he’ll lose what little control he still has left over his own emotions.

“You saved our lives, Bright. You saved us,  _ me _ , from. God, when they made me leave you there, Bright. Don’t ever,  _ ever _ give yourself up like that again! If they would have… have hurt you, I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself,” Dani exclaims, stepping forward to take his hands in one of hers, sliding the other under his chin to lift his face.

He meets her eyes, briefly, and has to look away. He can’t handle the emotion he sees there, not yet.

“What made SWAT decide to breach?” Malcolm asks, changing the topic.

“I did,” Dani admits. “I told them they had to go in, they had to get you out. There were only three armed prisoners, and I knew only one of them would be with you until… I told them they had to go in, before he killed you”

“Thank you,” Malcolm says, looking up to meet her eyes as he speaks. “I was definitely ready to get out of there,” he jokes, though it falls flat.

“We’re just glad you’re okay, kid,” Gil says, squeezing his shoulder. “Don’t ever scare me like that again, okay? I don’t think this old heart could take it.”

“Yeah man, we all know you’re not actually that brave, so no more pretending to be a hero, alright?” JT adds, shoving his other shoulder lightly.

Malcolm chuckles at that, familiar enough with JT’s gruff sense of humor to recognize it for the compliment it is.

Dani doesn’t say anything. There’s a haunted look in her eyes, still, one that Malcolm suspects is mirrored in his own. He can’t imagine what she’d gone through, the threats that had been made, first against her, and then him. Her eyes find his and he smiles softly at her, and she smiles back, huffing out a laugh.

“Never again, Bright? Got it?”

“Got it,” he promises. “Although, this really wasn’t my fault,” he adds, perking up. “It’s not like I rushed headlong into danger, or forgot to call for backup… honestly I can’t be blamed for this.”

The team groans in mock despair, throwing their hands up and rolling their eyes, and Malcolm knows that everything really is going to be okay.


End file.
